Title: Half Jack

Rating: M

Summary: Here I was- half deaf, tied up & bleeding out all over the damn carpet- If someone had told me six months ago that Adrian Veidt would be the one to personally end my life, I'd have called 'em a liar. Too bad I'm usually wrong.

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Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need someone,
Help!

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in anyway.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind, I've opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?

~Help by The Beatles

He never gave me my clothes back- he said I wouldn't need them. Instead, he kept me under a heavy wool blanket to keep me warm. I guessed the drug was long lasting since the hallucinations only grew slightly less intense as the days- what I assumed were days- went by.

We'd pass the time by watching crappy soap operas, listening to the radio, and reading the comic section of the paper which, incidentally, wasn't actually funny.

I was like a quadriplegic- he had to do everything for me, and I mean everything. It wasn't rape, but I was certainly being violated, and I knew that if I ever got out of this alive, no amount of therapy could ever make this alright.

Every few hours when I'd finally start to get some feeling back in my limbs, I'd be drugged again with what I'd wager was actually chloroform, and all my strength was pushed back to square one. I could make out the furniture now, as well as the stranger's figure, but the face was still too blurred beyond recognition.

I wondered if I was missed. Surely Vincent noticed my absence, and I usually saw Claudia or Virgil on a daily basis, so someone by now must have contacted the police. But there was still doubt- an underlying hint that this was all just wishful thinking and I was going to be one of those missing people who weren't missed at all.

And then I thought of something I should have on day one: The only way to fight back was to regain my strength, right? The drug was my biggest hindrance, and the one way to defend myself was to play a little Opossum.

It was around my third or fourth bath that I seized my chance to escape. As predicted, he tried t force me to inhale more chloroform to make bath time more agreeable on his part, but as the rag came down over my face, I halted my airflow, careful not to be noticed. To complete the ruse, I shut my eyes and lay very still. After about twenty second of playing dead, the cloth lifted, convinced I was incapacitated.

The last thing I wanted was this creep to touch me again, but I had no choice in the matter. My limbs grew less numb as the minutes ticked by, and I allowed myself to flex my fingers and toes when I was sure he wasn't looking.

I still didn't trust my own strength by the time he put me back to bed, and I knew I would have to wait just a bit longer till he left me alone before I could make a run for it.

Every moment I could spare, I tested my muscles from under the heavy blanket until finally, I was sure I could stand on my own.

My chance came to me in the form of a bathroom break. The stranger, who had been lying next to me and reading aloud today's paper suddenly rose and pecked my lips.

"Be right back." He said sweetly, and walked off to the bathroom.

Although I was now out of his line of vision, he always kept the door halfway open so that he could monitor me. This was turning out to be more and more like that Stephen King novel I'd read last year. What was it called? Misery, maybe?

I peeled the blanket away and sat up slowly to avoid letting my blood rush from my head. Not wasting a second, I snuck to the door and began to unlatch the deadbolt, forgetting for a moment that I was about to run naked through the streets.

And then my head cracked against the door and I crumpled to the ground in a daze. I peered through the red streaming from the fresh, bloody gash on my brow to find the stranger's hulking form in a stance that I'd definitely categorize as aggressive.

"Just where the fuck do you think you're going?" He sneered, stooping down to grab a fistful of my hair and pull up to his face.

I blanched immediately, though it wasn't from the loss of blood. Gold hair, strong, masculine features, and very blue eyes- this was the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my life- but this wasn't our first encounter.

"Adrian?" I murmured breathlessly. How could it be?

Here I was- half-deaf, drugged up, and bleeding out all over the damn carpet- If someone had told me six months ago that Adrian Veidt would be the one to personally end my life, I'd have called 'em a liar. Too bad I was usually wrong.

His face contorted into rage and he threw me back on the ground. "I knew it. I fucking knew it." he spat.

I clutched at my wound and inched away from him. God, I'd just sealed my own fate.

"Did the pretty little rich boy steal your heart away? You think he'll make you happy? Think you want a man like him?" he drew his leg back and kicked me I the ribs, over and over, while screaming "YOU DON'T WANT ANOTHER MAN! YOU WANT ME!"

Each kick left me breathless and in shock, delivered in rhythmless strikes meant to keep me defenseless and in agony. Adrian Veidt would make me suffer to my last breath, which I figured was coming sooner than I had ever expected.

A deafening crack! And the sound of splintering wood shot a new streak of terror and confusion through me, and what came net I didn't fully understand. The kicking stopped and the screaming began. Sunlight and a cold blast of wind made me flinch, heavy footsteps and many loud voices thundered in the room and stifled the screams.

"WE NEED A BUS!" a new, male voice shouted. "Ma'am, are you awake? Can you speak to me now?"

I answered him with a weak cough, still recovering from the blows that took the wind out of me. If this was another illusion, I was glad to have it. I shut my eyes in submission and rode out the next ten minutes in silence until a small pinch in the crook of my arm brought me to a deep sleep.

I dreamt about my childhood home in New Orleans, or rather about the massive hundred and fifty year-old ancestral cemetery on the back of our property. I would roam the rows of headstones and eerily beautiful mausoleums like I would as a child, pretending that they were little houses for the ghosts during the daylight hours.

All too soon, the comforting sights of home melted away, and my eyelids fluttered open. The bedbug motel! It was no longer my prison!

I beamed, grin stretching from ear to ear. Every detail could be seen with clarity- no shifting furniture or blurred walls obstructed my view and kept me in a drugged-out haze! This place was sanitary, safe, and smelled lightly of formaldehyde as hospitals typically did.

"Oh, I'm out- it's not a dream, it's not a dream!" And then I did the most inappropriate thing- I began to laugh hysterically- or maybe I was crying at the same time- I really couldn't be certain, and neither could the poor nurse making her rounds in the next room when she heard the commotion.

I tried to suppress the madness when the doctor she summoned produced a hypodermic needle, thinking it would calm me.

"No, no don't! I'm so sorry, I just," I giggled and shook my head in an attempt to rid myself of the bizarre behavior." THAT WAS THE SINGLE WORST EXPERIENCE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE, AND I THINK I LEFT THE WATER RUNNING AT HOME! Ahahaha, oh my God, I'm so tired- I'm just so tired you guys. I gotta feed my cat and call my mom, and then I'm gonna eat a tub of ice cream and watch Looney Tunes all day."

At this point, the laughter had subsided into weary sighs, and I allowed the doctor to assess my condition.

"You've been in our care for nearly eighteen hours now. You've sustained two cracked ribs and heavy bruising, and the MRI we took the liberty of doing for you showed no signs of head trauma, though at this moment I'm starting to see differently."

All the while I was gingerly prodding at the bandage covering the raw wound on my brow. "How many stitches?" I asked, ignoring the jab at my mental instability.

"Eighteen. Please stop poking it." he said testily, pulling my hand away.

Another man in a work suit appeared in the door and pulled a gold badge from inside his coat pocket. "Hey, Doc, is she available now?" he asked, flashing the badge as his identifier.

The doctor only shrugged. "I'm not convinced she'd fully lucid, but she's not in any immediate danger. I'll have the nurse outside if you need anything."

My doctor stepped out and the newcomer shut the door behind him. This guy was about thirty-four, tall and acceptably muscular, with dark, thinning hair and a posture that suggested military discipline.

He smiled cordially and took a place at the end of my bed. "Miss LaBelle, I'm Detective Zawistowicz. How're you feeling?"

I smirked. "Peachy."

"Peachy. Right, I'll be sure to make a note of it. Listen, I need you to tell me everything you can about what happened to you. It's imperative to your statement."

My stomach dropped. "…Why? Isn't he in your custody now?"

Zawitowicz tilted his head. "He who? You mean your kidnapper?" He studied my face carefully when I didn't answer. Jacquelyn, do you know who kidnapped you?"

"…"

"When we infiltrated the motel room, the perp pulled a knife and tried to assault on of our officers." He paused to wet his lips. "Another got a bit carried away and shot her before she could hurt anyone else. She's dead, Miss LaBelle. You don't have to be afraid anymore."

I stared at him, aghast. "She? A woman did this?" I'd been so convinced that it was a man, and Adrian Veidt to boot, but without hesitation now, I knew it had been Alexis all along. The girl who had tormented me in school and harassed me at work had secretly and obsessively loved me, and I never would have known it.

This whole damn time, I'd thought she was a crazy bitch who'd made it her mission in life to make me miserable, but in truth, she was a crazy lesbian who wanted to possess y love at any cost. How the hell was I supposed to deal with something so heavy?

I told the detective everything she had done from the drugging to the beating, though I didn't go into detail about the baths, lest I start getting choked up. Hallucinating about Adrian was also left out of the statement, not because it wasn't irrelevant, but highly embarrassing.

God, how could I not have seen? Their speech was completely different- hers wasn't nearly as sophisticated or eloquent, and I Alexis was the only person I knew was totally unhinged. I should have guess that right off.

How could I ever face him, especially after Zawistowicz told me it was Adrian who'd reported my disappearance, and practically led the entire investigation himself. Without him, the police would never have found Alexis in time. Without him, I'd be dead this very minute.